


Die Sommer Singvögel singen nicht

by Immortal_With_A_Kiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cemetery, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Godric's Hollow, Light Angst, M/M, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immortal_With_A_Kiss/pseuds/Immortal_With_A_Kiss
Summary: After finding the Elder Wand in August 1900, Gellert Grindelwald has only one destination in mind.  Godric's Hollow.





	Die Sommer Singvögel singen nicht

The streets of Godric’s Hollow were held in a sort of melancholy. It was hot, almost unbearably so, and the air was sticky with the coming rain. No people roamed the streets, preferring to hide in their little cottages that lined the streets leading off from the square. It wasn’t particularly late but the night was silent as if the town was holding its breath, though it itself did not know why. Even the song of the nightingale was absent, making it seem almost a ghost town.

A crack of apparition broke the silence but there was no move to stop the intruder who had appeared beside the town’s sole pub. The figure was cloaked in shadow, a hood pulled over his head to obscure his face. He refused to cling to the shadows as he crossed the square, heading in the direction of the church. There was nothing for him hide from, the man he most dreaded recognizing him had moved on nearly a year ago. All the town had left were simple shades of memory and inconsequential people. 

The figure reached the church cemetery and hesitated. It wasn’t the locked gate, that he could break with a spell. No, it was the memories held in the graves of this little town that gave him pause. The man drew a wand from the sleeve of his cloak. It was a strange thing, unusually long and gnarled. With an easy wave, the lock clicked open, leaving the cemetery exposed to him. A gust of wind blew his hood down, allowing the moon to finally illuminate the man’s face. 

Like his wand, Gellert Grindelwald was strange in appearance. The moon framed his face in a delicate light, his hair shining and making him look ethereal. One could be forgiven for mistaking him for an angel at first. But his eyes marred the picture a little, beautiful but in a haunting way. His left eye was so dark a brown it was almost back and his right was a pale blue bordering on silver. A determination was reflected in those eyes, hiding a deep ache and a longing.

As he walked through the graveyard, he was overcome with the sense that he was in a surreal dream or perhaps a nightmare. The village he had just left had changed so much in the year he had been away and yet it had not changed at all. The buildings were still the same cottages typical of the English countryside. The graveyard showed no sign of change. There was still only one pub in the blasted town. But there was something so very wrong about it. Something was missing. The same thing that had made this place the location of all of his happiest memories. The same thing that had made him put all of his plans on hold, if only for a couple of months. It was missing a boy with auburn hair and deep blue eyes and everything that came with him. It was missing the animated discussions by a gravestone and the stolen kisses between arguments. It was missing the infectious laughter and smiles. It was missing the boy named Albus Dumbledore. And so it wasn’t the Godric’s Hollow of his memories. In that village, the songbirds still sung their sweet melodies. Where had they gone?

Everywhere but here where he was, here that had been damned.

He found himself at his intended grave almost without realizing it. That grave wasn’t the one he had sought when he first came to this village. The one that had started the summer of insanity. No, the grave he was here for was the one of a sacrifice he was unwilling to make and yet had still made. The one that had cost him everything.

Two graves stood before him, dated to the same year. The one of the left was for a woman he’d never met. Kendra Dumbledore was only known to him by stories. But the one on the right was for her daughter, Ariana. And Ariana Dumbledore he knew well. He was part of the reason she was there, buried in the ground, after all. The inscription under her name read “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” and it was nearly impossible for him to hide the flash of pain that marred his expression. His hand instinctively reached for the pact that he wore, tucked into the pocket of his shirt. The edges were sharp and the pain steadied him.

His shoulders became rigid as he tried to hold back all semblance of emotion. It could only weaken him. That’s what that summer had taught him. He had let his guard down for once and let someone in. It had only ended in tragedy and he was still reeling from the loss. Even now, a full year later, he still woke up searching for what he was missing. What would never be returned to him. But the faults of her brother had no relevance to Ariana. And he was here for her.

He slid his wand back into the holster in his sleeve and produced another from his pocket. This one was shorter and twisted, almost as if it had never been refined after its initial cutting. It was a fine wand, perhaps not as powerful as the other but it had served him well. He twirled the wand in his hand easily. It was an old friend. It seemed like he was getting rid of those a lot lately. But there was a use for this wand, something appropriate only for it even as he held the Wand of Destiny. One final spell.

He drew his original wand in a circle, creating a wreath of white roses and freesia. It gently floated down to the grave but the white flowers were too soft against the cold stone and he frowned. Another flick of his wrist added some yellow jasmine to brighten the wreath, just as he knew she would have wanted. Ariana had always delighted in colorful things. In her more childlike states, she could spend hours gazing at vivid flowers with a cheerful, contented grin. But that smile was gone now, as were those days of easy happiness. The wreath was a parting gift and with it, there was nothing left for him in Godric’s Hollow. It was simply a place full of bones and silence, so silent not even the birds did sing.

He pocketed the wand he held and retrieved the Elder Wand. With another crack of apparition, the man known as Gellert Grindelwald disappeared. The night was still for a moment until the soft beating of small wings broke the silence. A bluebird landed on Ariana Dumbledore’s grave. But it did not open its beak to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Another little idea that I've had bouncing around in my head for ages. I guess some translations are in order.  
The title "Die Sommer Singvögel singen nicht' means "the summer songbirds do not sing".  
White roses and freesia symbolize purity and innocence, and yellow jasmine symbolizes happiness and optimism. At least I think? Sorry if this is wrong, I'm more familiar with Japanese hanakotoba than Victorian flower language but I tried my best.  
Then bluebirds are associated with happiness.  
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this little ficlet. Please comment your thoughts! Next time, I'll try to write something longer and actually featuring both halves of Grindeldore.  
-Rei


End file.
